


Divine Image

by Nonsuch



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Character Death, Complete, Implied/Referenced Incest, Matricide, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 13:36:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4393952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonsuch/pseuds/Nonsuch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seraphi Abrasax had always considered herself divine. Her children see to it that she becomes what she aspired to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Divine Image

I was summoned to my brother’s quarters by FTL, disturbed from the depths of sleep by the regular bleep of his call signal. It was rare to be so desired by my brother, and I moved quickly to make myself appealing, ringing my eyes with kohl and threading a thin silver crown through the intricate weave of my hair. I wore a simple white dress in the hope that I would remind him of Mother – she always liked to present herself as some perfect angel, more accustomed to the heavens than earthly soil, and I had something of a talent for emulating her.

Balem was waiting for me in a corridor adjoining his suite of rooms. He did not look up at me before speaking, the precious moments spent on my appearance wasted. “She is dead.” His voice had never sounded so cold. He was soaked, his hair still dripping wet. His face was ashen and his moist hands only steadied when I rushed towards him and seized hold of them.

I could not feign surprise at the news. Mother had made her peace with death clear in every line of her face. Only his aspect truly concerned me, for I had never known my brother to be so disordered.

“What happened?” I asked, stroking a thumb over his knuckles.  

Even though he was already looking away from me, he screwed his eyes shut. “She is dead.” He repeated the words mechanically, as if he hadn’t heard the question.

“But how?”

He opened his eyes with excruciating slowness, finally looking at me with the most terrible kind of sorrow. “Drowned.”

I could feel my own face pale, my consciousness of my brother’s wet hands, his soaked hair, now acute. He squeezed my hands, animating them and stirring me from my dazed state. “Who did this?” I asked despite knowing the answer, strangely curious to test him.

He merely looked at me, his gaze as cold and desolate as his voice had been. Tears trembled against his eyelids, threatening to spill over. I drew strength from his sorrow, empowered by this new, unfamiliar weakness.

“Has a search been ordered?” I asked, the perfunctory nature of the question smoothing over my panic. “Has the ship been sealed?”

He pulled his hands free of mine and looked away again, closing his eyes anew. His silence was all the confirmation I needed, and I found my fear transmuting into building exhilaration. There would be sorrow later in the face of death, certainly, but I had found myself in a rare moment – to surrender myself to fear and tears would be to squander an opportunity.

So I collected myself, extending a hand to his upper arm and stroking his damp sleeve in a gesture of reassurance. I was to be the arbiter of my brother’s fate. I’d never liked him, I knew no one who did, but he had always earned my respect and I had long craved his. Despite his weakness, I had no desire to remove him from the game. Not yet.

I caressed him as if I were caressing a cat, my strokes metronomic. His body was rigid, trembling from coiled tension, at first, but he broke quickly. He turned and allowed himself to sag into my arms, hooking his head upon my shoulder and releasing terrible, gasping sobs. “She made me do it,” he managed, barely speaking above a whisper, “she begged. She wanted to die.”

I leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek, nuzzling the space above his ear with practiced tenderness. Mother could make him weak for her with a look, and while I had to try harder I knew the basic principles. It helped that he was so vulnerable, so lost. I felt his heart steady against my breast, his body pressing closer to mine. I whispered my next question: “Who else knows of this?”

 “Her servant.”

“And where is this servant?”

“With her. She has not touched her. I ordered that she be left.”

I left Balem sagged in a chair, entering his suite of rooms without delay. I knew death and I knew Mother, and their combination did not trouble me. My feelings only changed when I entered my brother’s innermost chamber – wreathed in shadow and spices – and felt the new weight of the air. I could scent death, violent death, mingled with my mother’s favourite perfume. I barely registered the splice servant standing, head bowed, by the door, making haste towards the large pool by the window overlooking the stars.

Her body rested at the tiled bottom of the bath as I had known it would, and grief bubbled up inside of me, sparking tears in my ears, as I looked upon her. I began to descend the steps leading down into the water – that water which should have brought life – so I could perceive her more clearly.

The water both distorted and clarified her. In death, she was something of a poetic image for he had made her young again. Her dark hair floated in inky tendrils around her pallid face, teasing the dark, purple bruises blooming across her throat. Her brown eyes, dull now as they had never been in life, stared at me through the water, and they held no peace – only an exquisite sadness, an unfathomable regret. I drew in a deep breath before sinking into the water, clutching hold of her limp arm and dragging her with me to the steps. It felt a shame to disturb the tranquillity of her rest, but I could not leave her alone and I could not suffer anyone else to hold her body in their arms.

I cradled her by the pool’s edge, struck by how small she was. I called for the servant to bring a towel, drying her face with my own hands and closing her gaping eyes to keep them from searing me. While only forty years had passed since her prior youth, I had almost forgotten what it was to have a mother so young, a mother young and beautiful enough to be my sister. Somehow I preferred her this way – I had never seen the beauty in wrinkles and age-weathered skin. I was comforted by her beauty in death, for this was the undying image of Seraphi Abrasax I would bear in my memory.

I bent my head to press a kiss to her lips, demonstrating the affection she had denied me in life. Her limbs were supple and strong, and she could have simply been sleeping. I drew comfort from the thought.

The servant and I moved her to the bed together, and I ordered that dry clothes be found for her. I sat beside Mother, stroking her hair and caressing her small, white hand as the splice cut at her clothes with scissors to remove them, softly towelling her body dry before taking her from me to dress her in a simple white gown much like my own. Her hair was dried into a mass of dark waves, and she was gently set back upon the pillow with my silver crown resting upon her head. Mother had given it to me upon the occasion of my first rejuvenation, and it only seemed fitting to return it to her on the occasion of her death.

“Fetch my brother,” I issued the order without turning, tracing the crown with a finger, allowing it to travel into her warm and wild hair.

I knew Balem had entered the room from his moan of distress. I stood up, leaving Mother’s hair somewhat tousled, creating a space for him at her side.

He sunk to his knees besides the body, helpless to behold her. His hands immediately went to her face, framing it with the same violence I knew he’d drawn upon to kill her. He murmured ceaseless strings of words – prayers, apologies, professions of love – only to kiss her – rough, impatient kisses – when he received no reply. Having returned Balem’s victim to him, I could only watch him coldly, analysing him as I set to work detaching myself from my emotions.

“Do you think her beautiful now?” I asked, the question spoken out of genuine curiosity.

Neither of us looked at the other and he replied in a hoarse whisper, his hands still clutching Mother’s face. “Never more so.”

I left her to him, turning to find the servant waiting by the door, her fear only betrayed by the stare she fixed on my lunatic brother as he pawed at her mistress. I smiled kindly as I approached her, gesturing for her to turn so she faced away from me. I moved an arm around her waist to hold her tightly to me, and she was most biddable – she demonstrated absolutely no self-preservation as I withdrew the dagger I habitually carried with me and sliced her feathered throat open.

I had no desire to get blood on my dress.  

**Author's Note:**

> This is my take on something we all know happened - the murder of Seraphi Abrasax. I always sensed that Kalique was hiding the truth from Jupiter when she told her they didn't find out who murdered Seraphi, and I struggle to believe that Balem - who presumably went entirely loopy-loo after the murder - would have been able to effectively conceal his involvement alone.
> 
> Comments welcome!


End file.
